Steve Fagin: No such thing as too much fun

A bald eagle soared overhead, just as a loon’s mournful cry pierced the air, while friends and I kayaked the other day around Maneskootuk Island on Maine’s sun-dappled Rangeley Lake.

Along a ridge to the east, 4,121-foot Saddleback Mountain rises above neighboring promontories, while 2,443-foot Bald Mountain stands out among distant peaks beyond the western shore. Numerous other peaks are visible from various vantage points on the 10-square-mile lake.

As a southeastern Connecticut flatlander, I’ve always found it elevating to kayak while surrounded by mountains.

“And, we have the lake to ourselves — a perfect day!” I exclaimed. Joining me were Charlie Goff; his wife, Ginny; brother, Ed; and Ed’s friend, Virginia Branch.

It was also a perfect day 24 hours later, when Charlie, Ed and I scrambled up a relentlessly steep, ski-slope trail to reach Saddleback’s rock-strewn summit. The Goffs call this path, which connects to the Appalachian Trail just past the last chairlift, “The Stairmaster.”

We timed our ascent perfectly — a gusty wind whipped away low clouds and mist, affording us fleeting but breathtaking glimpses of Saddleback and Rangeley Lakes.

The breeze and altitude also provided refreshing relief from the insufferable heat that has blanketed so much of the country this summer.

If we had the time and inclination, we could have tramped another 67 miles to Mount Katahdin’s Baxter Peak, the northern terminus of the 2,190-mile Appalachian Trail, the world’s longest and arguably most celebrated footpath.

The day before, had our group continued kayaking on Rangeley Lake, we could have portaged a few times, and kept going and going, through a chain of lakes that are part of the 740-mile Northern Forest Canoe Trail, the longest inland water passage in the United States.

Primo kayaking and hiking have been luring my family and other friends to Rangeley for decades, including Ed, who spends most of the year in Rhode Island, and Charlie and Ginny, who live in Pennsylvania. We met years ago at a summer kayak race series around Maneskootuk Island, and although the races no longer take place, we continue to reunite in Rangeley.

Last week, we decided to take a leisurely paddle around Maneskootuk Island, for old time’s sake.

“It’s a lot more fun kayaking at this pace,” Ginny noted with a chuckle, as we drifted on the south side of Maneskootuk to peer at an eagle’s nest. We still call the 15-acre island “Doctors Island,” even though new owners changed the name several years ago. “Maneskootuk” is an Abenaki Native American name for “place of big trout.”

The island’s name has changed back and forth several times over the last 140 years, according to a 2017 article in Daily Bulldog, an online news publication that covers Maine’s Franklin County.

The article notes that the island was originally known as Ram Island in the 1880s, when a new owner called it Maneskootuk Island. After the island was sold to a physician in the 1950s, it was called Doctors Island. Yet another owner then renamed it Parisian Island in the 1960s, before the present owner went back to Maneskootuk Island.

Whatever its name, the private island is only two miles from downtown Rangeley and easy to circumnavigate — in a light breeze.

But when the wind kicks up on Rangeley Lake, which measures more than seven miles across at its widest point, waves can build to more three feet.

I was reminded of the lake’s notorious volatility the day after our Saddleback climb, when I set out on a 10-mile solo paddle from our family cabin to town and back.

The first leg featured mill-pond conditions — so calm I didn’t bother to snap on a spray skirt to prevent waves from washing into the cockpit.

After disembarking briefly at the town park to munch on snacks and drink from a water bottle, I climbed back aboard for the return trip.

Uh-oh.

Within minutes, the wind was gusting over 20 mph, churning up whitecaps. I lowered the skeg to maintain an even keel, tightened the zipper on my lifejacket, and braced for a bumpy ride.

Well, it wouldn’t be a Rangeley voyage without a little drama, I told myself.

After getting tossed around for a couple miles, I noticed the wind begin to fall off slightly. Hugging the north shore, I cautiously crossed Hunter Cove, and as I approached home base at Bonney Point, I realized that my knuckles no longer were white from clutching the paddle in a death grip.

I took a deep breath and exhaled. I was reminded that spending time in the great outdoors is often rewarding, restorative and inspiring — but you can’t let your guard down.